


monsters cannot chose

by Kyhariel



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, Ryan joins the crew, if you want it to be, past battle buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22542043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyhariel/pseuds/Kyhariel
Summary: there's a man beneath the mask of the vagabond
Relationships: Jeremy Dooley & Ryan Haywood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	monsters cannot chose

**Author's Note:**

> also known as: i project issues and somehow coherent fanfic happens

they call you monster

they've never seen a true monster, fangs bared, stained red with blood and viscera

but still they are terrified of you, the power they perceive in the way you move, the way you carry knives like they're the fangs of a creature much larger, hell-bent on destruction and death

they do not see the pain that has shaped you the way you are, cut away at you until all that was left was a small, horrified animal, lashing out at everything that came too close, hurting others so that they stay away

the world keeps cut cut cutting away at you and you're not sure how much is left until the names people call you become true

_ you had a life, once. you had friends, family once. _

_ all of it burned up in flames. _

_ you still feel the scars on your back, even if the fire never touched you. _

you can feel your sins crawling on your back and you remember it's from a video game

once upon a time, you had hobbies other than being far-too-paranoid and collecting-knives-like-stamps

you mourn those days but you cannot afford to revive them, always throwing glances over your shoulder and ever watchful of the people that made you the way you are

you hope they never return, because you know you’re powerless to stop them when you're alone

_ some ways down this path, you met a friend. _

_ you introduced yourself with a name that didn’t quite fit anymore. _

_ the name of a man that should by all rights be dead like his loved ones. _

_ but your friend smiled and told you that people change names all the time. _

_ some deaths weigh heavier on your consciousness than others. _

_ his is the heaviest. _

the mask on your face was supposed to hide the person you once were from the world

the face that belonged to an innocent man, before you were shaped with flame and pain and knife

but it becomes a symbol

they call you monster because that is all you allow them to see when they look at you

The Vagabond had heard of the crew that approached him. It was hard not to have heard of them if you’d been in Los Santos longer than a couple of weeks. It was almost as if they tried their best to keep themselves in the public eye, with daring stunts and almost impossible heists. What only added to it was that they’ve  _ never been caught. _

The Fakes of Los Santos - or the Fake AH Crew, if you were to use their proper name - were notorious. Had been since they first showed up two years ago, when their logo, a toxic green duck in video game-style crosshairs had suddenly flown over three different banks in Los Santos, nobody knowing how got there. After those three banks had been robbed in the ensuing three weeks, despite heightened security measures, despite the LSPD working triple-time to make sure that nobody new could lay claim to the city, the Fakes never left. They became the kings and queen of Los Santos, the city wrapped around their fingers.

So, yes, the Vagabond recognized the Golden Boy when he was approached by him.

The frontman of the crew, decked out in his titulary golden jewellery, with almost gaudy sunglasses and dirty blonde hair, the whispers were that he was actually the crew’s hacker, working behind the scenes to orchestrate their operations, able to get any information he wanted. 

So, he was reasonably sure the Golden Boy also knew who the Vagabond was.

It wasn’t like he tried to hide his involvement in the things he was contracted to do, his reputation was carefully cultivated and netted him very lucrative jobs, after all. And it came with the added bonus that people  _ very rarely _ double-crossed him or even tried to, since he had single-handedly taken apart the last gang that had tried.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, twirling one of his shorter knives in his hands, making it dance over his fingers, gaze locked on the Golden Boy at the other end of the warehouse, fingers loosely curled around a smg pointed at the ground. If he was intimidated by the Vagabond, like most (normal, sane) people were, he didn’t show it, even smirking at the other man.

“The Kingpin wants to hire you. I’ve been sent to negotiate the terms.” Well, the Golden Boy wasn’t quite dressed for a negotiation between criminals, the shirt he was wearing far too tight to conceal a bullet proof vest and the salmon shorts also not granting much protection against… anything, really. It seemed like the Golden Boy was either stupid or very confident in his own abilities. Or he trusted the Vagabond to not kill him, which was probably the stupidest option out of the three. At least for the Golden Boy himself, the Vagabond didn’t doubt he could take him, with a bullet proof vest under heavy leather and a rifle at his side.

“What would the Kingpin have me do?” The Kingpin was an enigmatic figure. Everyone knew his face, but it was hard to connect the sleepy, half-dead blue eyes and carefully groomed mustache with one of the most wanted people in Los Santos. Not that he was  _ officially _ wanted for anything - either the Fakes had an amazing lawyer or the Golden Boy was even better at his job than expected, single-handedly wiping the Fakes from every database - but the city still knew. The city still recognized the man at the top of the food chain. 

“Just a couple things, easy, really,” the Golden Boy replied, hints of an accent slipping through - something European, though the Vagabond couldn’t quite place it. The Golden Boy looked at him over the top of his sunglasses as he pulled something from behind his back with his free hand. The Vagabond tightened his grip on his rifle, expecting a weapon to be pointed at him, put the Golden Boy produced a manila folder that he lazily waved around. 

The Vagabond raised an eyebrow, not that the Golden Boy could see, with the skull mask covering his face. 

“Why see me in person, then? Take the effort to track me down?” It wasn’t like there weren’t ways to contact him that didn’t involve seeing him in person, especially for a hacker, especially if you were part of the biggest crew in the city. But the Golden Boy smiled, like he’d expected the question. 

“I’m going to be honest with you, Vagabond. These jobs are tests. The Kingpin is… interested in a more permanent arrangement, if you are.”

That was… something, certainly. It was, maybe not common knowledge, but known that the Vagabond didn't do crews, that he was nothing more than an independent contractor working for the highest bidder. He’d only worked with other people at the beginning of his ‘career’ and even then it had been only ever one person at a time. 

Maybe the Fakes thought they could get him simply by virtue of being the currently most successful crew in Los Santos? If so, that was awfully arrogant of them. But, to the Vagabond's surprise, the Golden Boy kept talking instead of waiting for a reaction.

"We know that you don't 'do' crews, but maybe give it, us, a chance? We can offer you a network, people to watch your back." The Golden Boy held out the folder, arm outstretched, but not coming closer. He was trying to make the Vagabond walk to him in what was a thinly-veiled powerplay and not the best impression if he was serious about the offer to join the Fakes. The Vagabond had half a mind to turn on his heel and walk out on the Golden Boy, but truth be told, he was intrigued by the Fakes. They seemed tight-knit, always the same people and never leaving anyone behind. So, he found himself taking careful, measured steps towards the Golden Boy, just barely close enough to grab the folder.

The Golden Boy smiled and it seemed more honest, but that could just be because the Vagabond was now close enough to see it reach his eyes.

"Let's talk money, yeah?" The Golden Boy said.

The main, high-profile members of the Fakes were assembled in the conference room in the empty office building the Vagabond had been directed to. They were sitting at a table, a map of Los Santos spread on it, small tokens and figurines scattered across it.

The Kingpin sat at the head of the table, opposite the door, in a rumpled suit, with even more rumpled hair but he held himself almost regally, as if he was holding court, as if he was intimately aware of the power he held. He was leaning towards his right, where a woman with fiery red hair sat. She was wearing a gaudy hawaii shirt and striped shorts. If not for the color of her hair, the Vagabond might not have recognized her as Pattillo, the best driver Los Santos had ever seen. She'd gained her notoriety in the street races happening day and night, but something about how she could even lose police helicopters spoke of a touch of genius and absolute control over her vehicles.

Opposite her was Mogar, with his curly brown hair and signature leather jacket, a snarling wolf head embroidered on it. Known for being the Fakes' ruthless muscle and intimidator, able to make grown people piss themselves just by yelling at them, word on the street was that he was also responsible for the explosives and the safe-cracking. If that was true, the Vagabond was impressed with the pinpoint accuracy the man was capable of, the artistry with which he caused havoc.

Almost hanging off Mogar was the Golden Boy, showing the other man something on his phone.

The Golden Boy was dressed much like he had been a couple of days ago, although there was a touch less jewellery.

And opposite the Golden Boy was the final, fifth, main member of the Fakes, a man only known as Rimmy Tim. He was dressed even more obnoxious than the Golden Boy, from the yellow pants to the orange shirt and the purple blazer he wore over that, all eye-searingly bright. Even the white cowboy hat, orange-tinted sunglasses and yellow half-mask couldn't make it less awful. 

There was little know about what Rimmy Tim actually did for the crew but most rumors had him pegged as additional muscle. The more outlandish ones were that he was their sniper, but with his color choices, the Vagabond wondered how Rimmy Tim hadn't ever been discovered if that was true.

It didn't seem like anyone had noticed the Vagabond walk in, the Kingpin talking with Pattillo, the Golden Boy bothering Mogar and Rimmy Tim fixated on his phone. So he cleared his throat, causing five heads to snap in his direction, all staring at him. He sat down at the end of the table opposite the Kingpin and nodded at the man. The Kingpin coughed, but caught himself and said: "Vagabond! Glad you could make it!"

For a crew that was as successful as the Fakes were, the way they planned seemed to be nothing short of chaotic. People talked over each other constantly and the Kingpin had to bang his fists on the table more than once to make himself heard.

The Vagabond had decided, five minutes into the meeting, that he was going to lean back and watch the show. Even if he didn't take the job, it was entertaining to watch them.

How Mogar threatened the Golden Boy with a painful death three times in just as many minutes but the hacker still hung off him, how Pattillo almost looked like a worried mother until the Kingpin botched the same word two times in a row, when she began cackling at the other's expense. 

Rimmy Tim had gotten up, meanwhile, messing with the figurines the Kingpin used as markers on the map. He was much shorter than the Vagabond had expected but it wasn't why he kept staring at him. It wasn't the god-awful outfit either, surprisingly.

It was the fact that the Vagabond was  _ certain _ that he knew Rimmy Tim's voice. It was the voice of a dead man, someone the Vagabond had buried years ago. (There hadn't been a body, but with all Jeremy had done for him, he'd deserved a funeral, at the very least.)

But even with how the Vagabond continually looked at Rimmy Tim, he completely missed how the shorter man stared at him as the Vagabond finally contributed to the conversation.

Actually working with the Fakes, it turned out, was less disastrous than their planning. Each member was competent enough to improvise when their plans inevitably fell apart and the Vagabond even found himself going along with their more off-the-walls ideas.

Of course, it didn't go unnoticed that the Vagabond had started working for the Fakes, the criminal world abuzz with rumors and gossip plenty.

The Vagabond paid it no mind until he overheard two people in the bar he was staked out in talking, a month after he’d started working with the Fakes.

"Think the Vagabond's settled down?"

"What, with the Fakes? Never. Bet someone bought him to infiltrate them and take 'em down from the inside."

"That's not really his style, though."

And the Vagabond had to agree, it really wasn't. His style was more ‘knocking on the front door with a minigun’. Running his fingers through his hair, he thought about what they had said. Settling down? Never. That wasn't happening, even if he liked working with the Fakes, despite him having to think about a dead man every time Rimmy Tim talked.

...He probably wouldn't have even thought about the comment if he wasn't currently on another job for the Fakes.

“Golden Boy,” the Vagabond said, causing the other man to jump and turn around.

“V! Didn’t see you there-” ...How could he have, the Vagabond had been behind him. “-I’ll just get out of your way.” And the Golden Boy was about to flee, as he did every time he ran into the Vagabond. 

“Why are you afraid of me?” The Vagabond asked, not moving, staring the Golden Boy down. When he had first talked to the Vagabond, he hadn't seemed afraid, but now every time he ran into the Vagabond, the Golden Boy seemed about ready to vanish. If they were to work together - and they had to, on the next job Geoff had planned for them, it was the whole reason the Vagabond had cornered the Golden Boy in Geoff’s penthouse - it was important that the Golden Boy wasn’t too afraid of the Vagabond to work properly with him. 

“Have you looked into a mirror? You’re bloody terrifying!” The Golden Boy took a step backwards and nearly stumbled over something.

“No,” the Vagabond said, seriously, “I brush my teeth in the dark.”

A beat passed. The Golden Boy stared at him.

The Vagabond tilted his head.

“Was that… a joke?” The Golden Boy blinked, confused.

“Nobody will ever believe you,” the Vagabond said and walked away, grinning behind his mask.

The question came three months after the Golden Boy had first approached him. The Vagabond had been expecting it, since the Fakes had been pretty up front from the start that they wanted him to join, but it was still surprising that they left him so much time before bringing it up.

As it was, he was in the Kingpin's office, the man himself sitting behind his desk, two computer monitors obscuring most of him.

"So, Vagabond, how d'you like working with us?"

The Kingpin was leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. Truth be told, he did like working with the Fakes. He enjoyed not having to glance over his shoulder every damn minute. Their plans, if they could be called that, were the best entertainment he'd had in years and it was almost too easy to go along with their improvisation when their plans fell apart. The Fakes were a well-oiled machine out on jobs and he fit seamlessly. 

But… The Vagabond didn’t get to like things. He was meant to be impartial, to just do work where the money’s best. (Wasn’t meant to get attached, because that got people  _ killed _ .)

So, he settled on: “You haven’t gotten me killed yet.”

The Kingpin laughed, leaning even further back, almost at danger of tipping his chair over.

Most people wouldn’t dare laugh at the Vagabond. But most people weren’t the Kingpin of the Fakes.

“So, what about joining us? If we haven’t killed you yet.” The Kingpin was grinning like he already knew the answer, like he was a predator that had caught his prey, except that the prey was one of the most dangerous people in Los Santos.

The Vagabond knew what his answer  _ should _ be. He knew he should say no and leave, maybe Los Santos as a whole, go back to the east coast for a while. He couldn’t stay in one place too long, the  _ Agency _ would come knocking sooner or later and it was safer if they couldn’t catch up to him at all.

On the other hand, though, if he joined the Fakes, he’d have people to watch his back. People that could potentially help against the Agency, with how they saw threats towards one person as threats towards the crew, never left anyone hanging.

But, no, he couldn’t. The last person he’d been partnered with… Well, suffice to say that the dog tag he was wearing wasn’t his.

“Yeah. I’ll join you.”

Okay, temporary insanity. The Fakes had rubbed off on him in the months they’d worked together and he hadn’t thought straight for a single moment, it wasn’t like he couldn’t rectify this - 

The Kingpin stood up and leaned over the table, holding his hand out and the Vagabond also got up to shake it. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he thought. Maybe this all would work out. It was worth a try, not like he hadn’t been hurt more in his past.

“Welcome to the Fake AH Crew! My name’s Geoff.” Now the Kingp- Geoff, looked more like the cat that had gotten the cream and in a way, he had. The Vagabond was fully aware that some crews used him as sort of a status symbol and he didn’t quite care, it made hiring him more expensive, after all. And now he was permanently a part of the Fakes, giving them a boost in respect they didn’t even need, currently, but it would serve to solidify their position even further, even less people willing to attack the crew, with Los Santos’ most (in)famous attack dog at their side.

“Ryan,” the Vagabond said, nodding at Geoff. He really wanted to work with the Fakes and it just seemed rude not to give out his name. Nobody would be able to track him from a single name, not even the Golden Boy, so he didn’t feel bad about giving it out, especially since Geoff had taken the first step.

Geoff pulled his hand away again and straightened his suit.

“I’ll properly introduce the rest of the idiots then.” And walked to the door, gesturing at the Vagabond to follow him.

It was to be expected that the rest of the crew was assembled in the living room of the penthouse Geoff’s office was in, scattered across the three couches in front of a giant TV.

A glance at Geoff told the Vagabond that the man had schooled his expression into something more serious, more solemn than the face-splitting grin he’d had in his office.

So, it wasn’t surprising when the Golden Boy had to ask: “So, how’d it go?”

Because of course the crew couldn’t get a simple theft properly organized but knew when Geoff would ask the Vagabond to join. 

“Well, Gavin, bad news is that our friend Vagabond here has decided to kill us all,” Geoff replied, managing to keep a straight face and serious voice only by miracle, going by what the Vagabond had learned about the man.

The Golden Boy - Gavin - yelped and dropped behind the couch, while both Mogar and Pattillo squinted at the Vagabond standing a step behind Geoff. Rimmy Tim gave no discernible reaction, but that was likely because the majority of his face plain wasn’t visible.

“Why hasn’t he killed you, then?” Pattillo asked, raising an eyebrow at Geoff.

The Vagabond didn’t say anything, he wanted to see what Geoff would come up with, if the man could keep the serious face up. Also, he got to fuck with other people far too little, they always thought he would kill them. It was good that nobody could see him grinning like an idiot behind his mask.

“Because of my blinding good looks and amazing dick-sucking skills,” Geoff said and finally broke into a grin, causing Mogar, Pattillo and Rimmy Tim to start laughing, while Gavin poked his head over the couch, to throw a look at Geoff that might as well have been him saying “really, you asshole?”. Then, he clambered over the couch to rise to his full height in front of the Vagabond, which was still a good bit shorter than the other man. 

“I'm Gavin,” he introduced himself, even if Geoff had already addressed him by name, then turned around and pointed at Pattillo, “that's Jack,” she waved, smiling, then he pointed at Mogar, “my boi, Michael,” who just nodded, “and that’s Jeremy,” pointing at Rimmy Tim, who tipped his hat.

Back _the_ _fuck up_. That- that had to be a coincidence, right? How many people named Jeremy lived on the world, after all, just a fucking coincidence that the man who sounded like his dead best friend was also called the same. Just the universe fucking with him. Maybe this was the grand cosmic price he had to pay for starting to work together in a group - security for constantly being reminded of his greatest loss. Yeah, that had to be it.

But he still stared at Rimmy Tim as he croaked out “Ryan.”

There was no reaction from Rimmy Tim, not like there should have been if he really was Jeremy, as unlikely as that was. The Vagabond went by ‘Ryan’ because of Jeremy, after all. 

But Rimmy Tim wasn’t a dead man and it was uncharacteristically foolish of the Vagabond to think he could be. 

Back in his own apartment, Ryan ripped off his mask to take deep, heavy breaths, sucking air in. After exchanging names, Geoff had talked some more about what it meant that Ryan was now part of the Fakes, but he hadn’t been able to get around the fact that Rimmy Tim’s name was Jeremy. 

Jeremy was dead and Rimmy Tim couldn’t be him, there was no way and he should know so much better than to hope, he’d painfully learned that there was no fucking hope for him, that no matter what happened, bad things would find him like vultures trailing a man who didn’t know he was dead yet.

He slid down the wall of his hallway, clutching his mask, almost hyperventilating now. 

The Vagabond didn’t have emotions, was always calm and collected. 

Ryan, however, wasn’t. Ryan was years of trauma only held together by a rubber mask and a leather jacket, constantly on the brink of breaking down. Ryan was the person who’d been broken down, first into a soldier and now into whatever the Vagabond was. 

Ryan was the person who’d made the choice to join the Fakes.

One he was already sorely regretting.

But there had to be things that separated Rimmy Tim from Jeremy, things he could use to keep the two apart in his mind. He’d just have to find them.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to calm himself down. Slowly, his breathing normalised again. He could do this. It wasn’t- it wasn’t like the Fakes knew the man behind the mask, they just had his name. 

They wouldn’t get him to be vulnerable like that.

“Hey, V,” Rimmy Tim said. The Vagabond was in the penthouse, some of his knives spread out on the living room table - he’d been cleaning them. Rimmy Tim was standing behind the couch, looking down at him.

It hadn’t escaped the Vagabond’s notice that Rimmy Tim wasn’t using his name, but then again the Vagabond wasn’t using his name either.

It almost felt like both of them were dancing around something, hiding behind fake names and their faces covered. But of course, there was nothing to dance around, Rimmy Tim was Rimmy Tim and Jeremy was dead.

Right now, Rimmy Tim wasn’t looking like someone with color blindness had dressed him, with sensible black clothes, a black baseball cap, worn backwards and black shades and a black surgical mask hiding his face.

He had a gun case slung over his shoulder that was almost as long as he was tall.

“I need someone to watch my back on a quick job and everybody else is busy,” Rimmy Tim explained, shrugging the case up his shoulder, adjusting the strap of it. Seems like those rumors that Rimmy Tim was the crews sniper were true after all - in the months the Vagabond had worked with the crew, mostly people from what had been dubbed "B-Team" had played sniper when needed.

“Yeah, sure, let me just-” And the Vagabond started putting the knives away, back on his person.

As it turned out, Rimmy Tim was a pretty good sniper - the distance he’d insisted on setting up on was enough to make the Vagabond doubt that he could pull off the same shot, but Rimmy Tim did it flawlessly. 

Here he was meant to look for difference between Rimmy Tim and Jeremy but the latter had also been a better sniper than him. Of course the universe wouldn’t make it easy on him, but it was getting a bit ridiculous.

Currently, they were leaving the scene of the crime - well, getting further away, they’d already been a fair bit away beforehand but better not to sit in the sniper’s nest when someone inevitably came knocking.

“Why’re you wearing that mask, anyways?” Rimmy Tim asked, sitting in the passenger seat of the Vagabond’s zentorno. A car the Vagabond had insisted on taking, since, even if Rimmy Tim was dressed reasonably, the man didn’t own a single car that wasn’t painted purple and orange.

How honestly was the Vagabond supposed to answer that question? Nobody of the crew had asked before and given that Rimmy Tim was hiding his own face, the Vagabond had just sort of assumed the other man understood.

Additionally, there wasn’t just one reason he wore it - the Agency, he was sure, was still looking for him and the Los Santos police had a hard time catching him if they didn’t know what his face looked like.

(But, above all, he couldn’t stand his own face anymore. It was the face of a man who had watched his own life crumble to dust and had been unable to stop it. The Vagabond wasn’t that powerless, he’d made sure. And the Vagabond was the mask and the leather jacket and the knives, without all that he was just Ryan.)

So, instead of answering, the Vagabond asked: “Why are you wearing one?”

Rimmy Tim huffed and turned away, staring out of the windshield. 

Good talk, good to see that they both had issues they didn’t want to talk about.

Neither said another thing until they arrived back at the penthouse.

It wasn’t like the Vagabond didn’t ever get hurt. Of course he did, it just helped his reputation to seem invincible. Untouchable. 

But right now, he was sitting in the penthouse with both his jacket and shirt off so Jack could patch him up. Honestly, it was a routine job, grab and run, but one of the guards had been a maniac with a sword so now the Vagabond had more lacerations on his upper body than he would’ve liked.

He didn’t notice that Rimmy Tim had walked into the living room and was staring at the Vagabond until he turned his head and saw him just standing there, a can in his hand.

“That tattoo, where’d you get it?” The Vagabond glanced down at his shoulder. It was something Jeremy had scribbled onto a napkin at a bar once and christened the logo of the Battle Buddies. A couple of months later, after their tenth successful mission together, Jeremy had cleaned the sketch up and they’d both gotten it tattooed on their shoulders.

“A friend drew it,” the Vagabond answered. It was as much as he felt comfortable telling and even that now meant that Rimmy Tim and Jack now knew more about him than anyone else in Los Santos.

Rimmy Tim tore his gaze away from the tattoo, glanced up at the Vagabond and then basically fled the room, power walking out. 

If he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses and a mask, the Vagabond would’ve seen that the look on his face was pure shock.

The Vagabond was going to kill Geoff. Right after he had shotgunned the coffee the Starbucks barista was currently making him. Coffee! He hated coffee! But it was also half past three in the fucking morning and Geoff had called a crew meeting and he couldn't drink enough diet coke to get the caffeine he needed before he was supposed to be at the penthouse.

So his savior, the barista, was currently brewing him a concoction that included more espresso than was strictly necessary, with enough syrup to mask (most) of the coffee taste. She hadn't even commented on the fact that he was very obviously wearing his signature jacket. Then again, this was Los Santos, he could've probably walked in here with the fully decked-out crew and she wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

He gratefully accepted the cup when it was handed over and immediately burned his tongue trying to drink some of it.

Okay, so, yeah, he  _ had _ walked in fifteen minutes late to the meeting with a starbucks cup in hand, he was very aware of that fact, thank you very much, but it didn't mean that the crew needed to stare at him like he'd grown a second head. Ignoring their stares, he took the closest chair and slumped in it, closing his eyes, waiting for the crew to get their shit together.

"Uhm, Ryan," Jack said and the Vagabond cracked an eye open. "What," he snapped. He was far too tired to deal with people beating around the bush.

"Dude, you're not wearing a mask,” Michael pointed out.

The Vagabond took a sip of his coffee. It probably would have happened anyways, in due time. It wasn’t like his mask was glued to his face, he just greatly preferred to be wearing it. But on the other hand, it was four in the morning, he was very tired and more pissed off and like this at least Geoff would see his face when he’d kill him for the meeting being unnecessary.

He didn’t, however, think that Rimmy Tim would get up and physically pull him out of the room, saying: “We need to talk.”

Rimmy Tim dragged him into the penthouse's kitchen and was now standing before the Vagabond, arms crossed.

“If you are the long-lost twin of James Ryan Haywood, I am going to be very cross.”

How did Rimmy Tim know that name, how did he know the Vagabond’s first name, he wasn’t Jeremy, couldn’t be Jeremy, Rimmy Tim couldn’t be a dead person but he also shouldn’t know that name, only the people in the Agency-

The Vagabond sipped at his coffee to squash down the panic rising at the back of his throat.

“If the Agency sent you to kill me, you’re not walking out of here alive,” the Vagabond threatened, trying his best to look the part even without the mask, shoulders squared and face tipped down ever so slightly, looking down at Rimmy Tim.

(And there definitely wasn’t a panic attack clawing at him, at the edges of his mind because if Rimmy Tim was part of the Agency it meant the Vagabond had to  _ run, _ to get away from Los Santos, because the only way to leave the Agency was death and here he stood anyways.)

Rimmy Tim had the audacity to look taken aback, shaking his head. “No- that’s not-  _ Ryan _ , I wouldn’t-” And he shook his head again and pulled off his sunglasses and tugged his mask down, leaving it hanging around his neck.

Ryan blinked, bewildered. Then, he looked at his coffee, wondering if the Barista had slipped something into it that was making him hallucinate.

Then, he looked back up at Jeremy. Because the man standing in front of him was, without a doubt,  _ Jeremy _ , who had died four years ago, who Ryan had been mourning for four years- This, this wasn’t happening, couldn’t fucking be happening, what were the odds of running into a dead man.

Gently, Jeremy reached out and took his coffee cup from him, setting it down on the counter behind him. Ryan hadn’t even noticed that his hands had started shaking. 

“You’re dead,” Ryan finally managed to get out, barely more than a breath.

“Funny,” Jeremy said, “I was told the same thing about you.” And Jeremy wasn’t looking at him, arms crossed and glowering at the ground. 

“What is- what the fuck is happening,” Ryan stammered out because it felt like a fucking fever dream, it was far too early in the day for earth-shattering revelations. 

“I think, unsurprisingly, the Agency lied to us,” Jeremy said.

Okay, yeah, he could definitely see that but he’d believed it so wholeheartedly, when he could’ve been looking for Jeremy who had been alive all this time and hey, was the oxygen in the air just gone or was he hyperventilating? It felt like someone had punched him in the throat and there were hands on his shoulders and he couldn’t concentrate-

“Hey, Ryan, look at me, breathe, I got you, it’s okay, I’m here.”

And he was sitting on the floor and Jeremy was crouched in front of him and his face was feeling awfully wet and those were tears, huh? He’d almost forgotten that panic attacks were a thing that happened to Ryan, had even back in the Agency and that was why Jeremy was talking him down, because he’d done it before.

Ryan was slowly calming down, taking actual breaths again, when Jeremy wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

“When did,” Ryan gulped in air, his voice shaky, “when did you realize?” Because Jeremy had seen his tattoo, hadn’t he? He must have known, right? Why hadn’t he said anything-

“I think when I heard your voice. Because who else would roll up looking like the edgiest motherfucker-” “Hey!” “But I wasn’t sure, y’know? Can’t just ask the Vagabond to take off his mask to check if your best friend is hiding beneath it.”

Jeremy let go of Ryan and sat down beside him, pressing into his side.

“What are we going to tell the crew?” Ryan asked into the air.

“We could have some fun with it,” Jeremy mused, standing back up, holding a hand out to Ryan to help him up.

“I probably look like a mess,” Ryan said, rubbing at his eyes. Jeremy hmm’d and nodded, then pulled out his sunglasses and put them on Ryan’s face. “There, all better.”

Ryan chuckled.

They were greeted with a “so, you guys done with sucking each other's dicks?" from Michael and Jeremy just shrugged and replied: "Yup. The Vagabond's so hot without a mask I just couldn't help myself." The Vagabond tried his best to look smug and it was probably helping a lot that he was wearing Jeremy's sunglasses. 

The Vagabond was musing over a grenade launcher, stood in the armory of the Fakes, together with Jeremy at his back.

The meeting had been important, it turned out. Some gang trying to make moves in the Fakes’ territory, moves that needed to be shut down hard and fast. Honestly, the Vagabond was not much for the whole politics side of this, he just did what he was pointed at. Which was exactly what was about to happen, because Geoff had told Jeremy and him to send a message.

“Ryan?” The Vagabond turned around, looking at Jeremy. “This is the first… real Battle Buddies mission since…”

Since the Agency had separated them. Ryan inclined his head, mindful that Jeremy’s glasses didn’t slide down where he’d shoved them up so the tint of the glass wouldn’t annoy him.

“Anyways, how about we do this Battle Buddy-Style?” And Jeremy was grinning from ear to ear and Ryan couldn’t help himself but to grin too, because  _ yes _ . He’d missed this so much, thought he’d never get to fuck shit up with Jeremy again and he’s only had him back for a little over an hour but it felt like Jeremy had never left (like Ryan had never mourned him).

Ryan nodded and he felt like an excited puppy and he was pretty sure he’d agree to everything Jeremy would suggest right about now. ...He was pretty glad it was only Jeremy and him in the Armory, because right now the Vagabond they’d gotten to know was nowhere to be seen, he was the closest to himself he’d been in years, now  _ and it’s only been an hour since he got Jeremy back _ . He knew the emotional whiplash would catch up with him, sooner rather than later but right now it was still so surreal and better than anything he could dream up. 

His day just got better the moment Jeremy ducked under a table and came back up with a rocket launcher. 

“Geoff keeps this for special occasions and well… This calls for it, doesn’t it?”

_ Technically _ they’re supposed to break into some stash house of whatever gang was trying to get at them, but overkill never hurt, right?

Ryan took the launcher from Jeremy, testing its weight. The only piece of heavy weaponry he’d used in the last few years had been his minigun - it’s easy to keep up a reputation as an insane maniac with something like that on hand - and the launcher is decidedly different but it was far from the first time he’d used a rocket launcher, which Jeremy knew.

Ryan was pretty sure that even with both of them gone from the Agency for years now, the Battle Buddies still held the record for most damages caused.

“Say, Jeremy,” Ryan said, still looking at the rocket launcher. He hasn’t got a mask and wasn’t particularly motivated to hit up one of his stashes. But he had an idea. “You don’t have any face paint, do you?”

Maybe the Vagabond looked a bit more terrifying than anticipated, with how Gavin ducked behind Michael when he walked back into the penthouses living room, Jeremy in tow. The blood on his jacket wasn’t even his own! And the facepaint had probably gotten smeared to hell and back, even if the Vagabond was pretty proud of what Jeremy’s art degree and his own experience in theater had created. (Almost resembling a skull, with the thick black circles around his eyes and the three lines crossing his mouth, cheeks blacked out as well, but only the lower half of his face had been painted white, the upper a stark, almost the color of fresh blood, red.)

Okay and maybe his ponytail had come loose, black hair now framing his face and yeah, Gavin had never seen him grin before, on account of the mask and all that-

Yeah, he probably looked terrifying.

Geoff came storming out of his office. “What! Did I send you two idiots to do!”

“...to send a message?” Jeremy said. And that they had - the warehouse they’d set fire to probably was still burning. Well, the fire had been accidental (as much as these things can be when you have a rocket launcher and a friend making dumb bets with you).

“I sent you to send a subtle message! In what world is a burning building subtle! I might as well have sent Michael!”

“It’s a Battle Buddies message,” the Vagabond added, shrugging.

“Battle what?”

“Battle Buddies!” Jeremy helpfully repeated, fistbumping Ryan.

Geoff squinted. “What the fuck happened this morning.”

“The Battle Buddies got resurrected,” Ryan explained, as if it was supposed to mean anything to Geoff.

“You know what? I don’t even want to know,” Geoff said, shaking his head and going back to his office.

Back under his own shower, in his own apartment, washing off the grime, blood, ash and face paint, it did catch up to Ryan.

It was now about noon, eight hours ago he had still been convinced Jeremy was dead, he’d been trying his best not to glare down a barista in a starbucks and thinking about how he could best kill Geoff for a call at three in the morning. And now he didn’t only have Jeremy back, but he’d already wrecked havoc with him again and - 

Geoff hadn’t been stoked about that. Ryan could only guess about why the Agency had separated him and Jeremy but… they’d been infamous for the damages they caused. 

And the Vagabond had been carefully created as an antithesis to that, as little unnecessary damage as possible, all intimidation and bloodshed. (Not that the Battle Buddies hadn’t caused their fair share of bloodshed but most of it hadn’t exactly been  _ wanted. _ )

What if this was a deal breaker for Geoff? What if he’d have no use for Ryan? He couldn’t go back to being the Vagabond, not like before, the Vagabond had been a mask and leather jacket shield for Ryan and Jeremy had already ripped off the mask like a band-aid. The Vagabond had been molded out of  _ grief _ .

And if Geoff had no use for Ryan then he’d have to leave and lose Jeremy again because Jeremy had a family here because that’s what the Fakes behaved like and a family was infinitely worth more than a single, fucked-up friend.

But he couldn’t- he couldn’t…

There was still black paint caked into the wrinkles around his eyes after he stumbled out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror. He sighed and chose to ignore it as he went about hunting down clothes. He’d only come back to his own apartment to shower and get a change of clothes, he’d promised Jeremy to come back to the penthouse.

Only now he was standing in the hallway of his apartment, looking down at his mask. The crew had seen his face, there was no point in hiding from them anymore. But… he wasn’t really ready yet to be Ryan. Ryan, at this point, was held together with spit and prayers and was so, so different from the Vagabond. 

Ryan was fumbled words and a goofy laugh (and more pain than he’d dare examine, for fear of breaking under it) while the Vagabond was sharp edges and a professional distance (that the Fakes had broken down with little issue, that Jeremy had torn apart like a paper tissue).

He stuffed his mask into the pocket of his jacket before leaving.

“Ryan? A word.” Geoff waved him into the meeting room. The Vagabond followed and softly closed the door behind himself, turning to Geoff. The Vagabond opted to stay by the door, not sitting down. That way he'd been gone faster if Geoff was dismissing him.

"So, Jeremy and you know each other, huh?" Geoff asked, sitting down at the head of the table. 

"Yes," the Vagabond replied. Geoff squinted at him, unable to gauge the Vagabond's reaction, with his mask firmly in place again.

Geoff sighed and leaned back. "If you use that to hurt Jeremy in any way, you're going to have to deal with… well, I want to say me, but Jack is far more scary than me when she's angry."

That… wasn't a dismissal. That didn't even sound remotely like Geoff wanted to rid himself of the Vagabond, the opposite, rather, if he was concerned that the Vagabond would hurt Jeremy (which, never, no, he couldn't even fathom-).

The Vagabond nodded once. "Understood."

Wait- 

The Vagabond tilted his head, ever so slightly. "Is this a shovel talk?"

Geoff grinned. “If you want it to be.” The Vagabond blinked at Geoff. If he… wanted it to be? Was Geoff hitting on him on Jeremy’s behalf?

Geoff sighed and shook his head. “Go.” And the Vagabond was shooed out of the room.

Jeremy had brought the Vagabond to one of the bars the Fakes frequented, where they were good enough customers that the people working it wouldn’t rat them out. (It helped, of course, that it had been financed by them when it had started out.)

They were sitting at a table in the back, the Vagabond (maskless again - Jeremy had made him take it off, because  _ we’re in public, Ryan, you can’t always run around like that _ ) with a diet coke and Jeremy a normal one. 

“So, what have you done the last four years?” Jeremy asked.

“Well, the Agency tried to give me a new partner.” Something that had been an utter shitshow. They’d given him a newbie, much like Jeremy had been when they’d met, but this time  _ even younger _ , barely twenty. “I couldn’t do it, so I left. I ran for a year.” The Agency really hadn’t liked him leaving. They didn’t like anyone leaving if it wasn’t through death. 

The Vagabond took a deep breath. “Then came the mask. I needed money and well, we already were basically mercs, right?” He had barely been able to look at himself in mirrors, the skull mask had been a vast improvement. “I met Dollface and Brownman during my first few months working, but well, I worked better alone.” Which wasn’t to mean that he didn’t keep in contact with them - Dollface still dragged him somewhere to catch up every time they happened to be in the same city and even if Brownman’s stopped sniping, Ryan still watched sometimes when the man streamed. 

Then, the Vagabond shrugged. “You know the rest.”

Jeremy nodded. “I left the Agency right after they told me you died. I went back to Boston, made my rounds in the underground fighting rings, until the Agency found me again. I came here, where I met Jack and later Geoff and everybody. Shortly after we all started the Fakes.” 

“I’m… glad that we found each other again,” Jeremy added, smiling.

Ryan smiled back.


End file.
